Lady Danger (The Warrior Maids of Rivenloch, Book 1)

by Glynnis Campbell

  Still, a moat seemed excessive. "We've never needed such defenses before."

  "Indeed, I'm not entirely convinced we need them now," he concurred.

  “Have you talked with my father about this?”

  “Nay. I thought to ask your counsel first."

  “My counsel?” she asked dubiously, searching for signs of mockery in his face—an amused glimmer in his eyes, a wry twist of his lips—but there were none.

  “If you think the idea impractical,” he gently confided, “we need not trouble him with it at all.”

  She met his solemn stare as long as she could, then gave him a subtle nod of gratitude. It was diplomatic of him not to mention her father's feebleness. But while he waited expectantly for her reply, she grew uncomfortably warm beneath his steady gaze, wary of his sudden interest in her opinion.

  "Very well. Then I do think the idea impractical."

  His eyes flattened slightly in displeasure, but he kept the disapproval from his voice. "Why?"

  "The excavation itself would leave the castle vulnerable."

  "Only for a short time."

  "Long enough for enemy sappers to undermine the wall."

  He furrowed his brow. "True."

  Primed to argue her point, his words took the wind from her sails. Had she heard him properly?

  He slowly began to nod. "You may be right. 'Tisn’t worth the risk."

  She blinked. His concession melted something inside her, softening her heart and leaving her speechless. She could only stare at him in wonder. There was genuine trust in his eyes now...eyes, she noted anew, that shone as beautiful and clear and deep as a summer loch...eyes capable of icing over in cold rage, but brimming now with gentle warmth.

  Then she remembered Lucy.

  She quickly diverted her focus, gazing at the distant towers, hardening her heart against Pagan. “There may be other ways to strengthen the walls,” she said. “Ramparts. Butteries. Machicolations.”

  “Butteries?” He frowned.

  “Buttresses. I meant buttresses.”

  “Come,” he told her, his eyes alight. “I had another idea. Let me show you.”

  He dragged her off again at a lope, back through the gates and across the courtyard, scattering a flock of chickens in his wake.

  She couldn't stay angry with him, not when he strolled hand-in-hand with her around the grassy perimeter of the keep, sharing his plans for a new wall to surround it, an idea that enthused him so much that he raved on about it like a lad with a new wooden sword. Despite Deirdre’s usually skeptical nature and resistance to change, she couldn’t help but be swept up in his exuberance.

  “‘Twould be roughly concentric to the keep,” he explained, patting the stone of the south tower, “forming an additional barrier between the outer wall and the keep itself. But the inner gate would be offset.”

  She realized the significance at once. “With the gates out of alignment, an army would have difficulty breaching both."

  “Precisely.”

  Deirdre smiled. She was wed to a resourceful man indeed. “Brilliant.”

  He grinned and impulsively lifted her hand, still clasped in his, to place a kiss upon her knuckles. To her consternation, a flush of pleasure rose in her cheeks.

  “Naturally," he said, too preoccupied to notice, "archers could man both walls in the event of attack. And the additional towers could be used for storage of provender against siege. Best of all, the castle would remain secure during construction.”

  Deirdre let her gaze drift up the side of the tower. She was understandably impressed. Pagan had clearly given Rivenloch’s defenses a great deal of thought. His plan was ingenious.

  There was only one problem.

  “Listen," she said, gently extracting her hand from his. "There’s something you should know. Rivenloch’s coffers are...” she said under her breath, “modest. I fear my father’s love of...of wagering has depleted our wealth.” She met his eyes sternly. “Understand, I will not forbid him his play. ‘Tis one of the few pleasures left to him. But his losses have left us short of coin.”

  “You needn’t fret," he said with a droll grin. "I didn’t come with an entirely empty purse.”

  “Perhaps not. But I doubt you brought enough silver for such an undertaking.”

  “True.” A glimmer of devilry stole into his eyes as he gazed thoughtfully across the sun-splashed courtyard. “Which is why we’ll need to have a tournament soon.”

  Deirdre’s heart skipped a beat. Surely she’d heard wrong. “What?” She blinked. “What did you say?”

  “After harvest time, you think?”

  “A tournament? Are you serious?” Rivenloch hadn’t sponsored a real tournament in a half dozen years. Once competitors learned that Deirdre and Helena were allowed to take part, fewer and fewer knights accepted invitations to joust at Rivenloch for fear of losing to a woman, or worse, killing one.

  “Maybe another in the spring.”

  “You are serious.”

  “Of course I am," he said, chuckling. "Men will travel far for the honor of fighting the knights of Cameliard. We could win a sizable purse.”

  Was it possible? Could Pagan bring tournaments back to Rivenloch? Deirdre’s pulse pumped wildly now at the possibility. From the time she could sit a destrier, she’d loved tournaments more than anything...the clash of steel on steel, the smell of horseflesh, the amazing feats of swordsmanship, the honor and chivalry and ritual...

  But she dared not let false hope make her foolish. For years, the Warrior Maids had tried to reinstate tournaments at Rivenloch...and failed.

  She tempered her voice to indifference. “Well, ‘tis all very interesting, but what if you lose these tournaments?”

  A predictable cocky smile brightened his face. “The Knights of Cameliard never lose.”

  With that audacious boast, he gave her a salute of farewell and swaggered off, leaving her to stare after him in amazement.

  The rest of the day, despite her intentions to look at things with a cynical eye, tournament plans whirled among her thoughts. Visions of colorful pennons and pavilions from far-off lands, mysterious knights-errant with strange beasts on their shields, and magnificent warhorses adorned with silver and jewels stirred her blood. She could almost hear the crack of lances and the clang of blades as champions battled, could almost smell the savory meat pasties and perfumed ladies and damp horses.

  If Pagan could carry it off, if he could restore twice yearly tournaments at Rivenloch, Deirdre might do more than simply respect him. Indeed, she might feel a measure of genuine appreciation for her husband, enough to almost make her forgive him for Lucy and the buttery...almost.

  Why Boniface saw fit to sing a roundelay with two dozen verses in her honor after supper, Deirdre didn’t know. But when the unwieldy song finally ended, she was surprised to find Pagan missing from the hall.

  An unexpected twinge of loss pinched her heart, for she’d just passed a remarkably pleasant supper with him, discussing some of her favorite subjects—castle defense and upcoming tournaments, Welsh archers and Spanish steel. Pagan had been gallant and diplomatic when her father momentarily forgot who he was, speaking kindly and patiently until he remembered. He’d sung praises to the knights of Rivenloch for their progress in the lists. He’d even managed to befriend Sung Li by speaking a few words he knew in the old woman’s tongue. For a while, as Deirdre and Pagan sat together, knee to knee, chatting away contentedly, it was almost possible to imagine growing old with him.

  But now that he’d deserted her, misgivings crept in among her thoughts, and her defenses rose to protect her. No doubt, she thought peevishly, gulping down the last of her perry, he’d had a pressing appointment with Lucy in the pantry. In fact, he’d probably entreated Boniface to perform that tiresome song in her honor to keep her occupied while he trysted with the wench under her nose.

  He hadn’t bothered to solicit his kiss from her today. She supposed he’d forgotten. But she didn’t intend to b
e cheated out of her practice time tomorrow. If she happened to be in bed and asleep when he came to collect payment...well, she couldn’t be blamed. It would still count.

  So, thanking Boniface for the wretched song and blinking the sting of disappointment from her eyes, Deirdre headed upstairs.

  At first, when Deirdre pushed open her door and glanced within, she thought she’d come to the wrong bedchamber. She frowned warily, her hand going instinctively to her sword, which she unfortunately wasn’t wearing.

  The room glowed with candlelight. Candles were perched on the sill, stuck onto stands beside the bed, and placed in a ring about a wooden tub in the midst of the room, a tub from which wraiths of fragrant steam arose. Fire crackled on the hearth, lending a smoky note to the bath’s flowery scent. Jasmine. Or rose. She wasn’t certain, for she never bothered to put flower petals in her bath.

  Absorbed by the unfamiliar ambience of her chamber, she almost failed to notice that Pagan hadn’t gone to meet Lucy after all. Indeed, he stood in the far corner of the room, silhouetted in candlelight and looking as handsome as the Devil.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Ah, welcome, my lady,” he invited with a half bow.

  In the golden light, his tawny hair gleamed, and his eyes sparkled like softly twinkling stars. He was now clad in a robe of dark blue velvet that draped his powerful shoulders and was tied at his hip. She suspected he wore nothing beneath.

  Deirdre tensed, and her defenses engaged at once. What was the knave up to? Suddenly the chamber reeked of more than flowers. It smelled suspiciously of seduction. Aye, they’d passed a pleasant supper, indeed a pleasant day. But did he think her convictions so weak they could be swayed by a few candles and a flowery bath?

  On the other hand, perhaps his gesture was sincere. He had begun to exhibit signs of almost husbandly devotion of late.

  Her breathing hastened as she hesitated in the doorway. Her thoughts reeled around and around among all the variations of Pagan—honorable bridegroom, wretched philanderer, patient teacher, loyal defender, smug seducer. Which one was he tonight?

  Standing there, she felt as if she lingered between two worlds, one of familiar comforts and one of fascinating dangers. She could step back outside, shut the door, and her life would go on as it had, calmly, predictably. Or she could face this new challenge and risk leaving herself vulnerable to whomever Pagan was this eve.

  The corner of his mouth lifted into a mocking smile. “You’re not afraid, are you?”

  That made up her mind, as he no doubt knew it would. Raising her chin, she entered and closed the door behind her. She did, however, leave her hand upon the latch.

  “What is this?” she asked, her throat tight.

  “This...is a bath,” he said with an easy grin. “I’m almost certain you’ve seen one before.”

  “For me?” She looked longingly at the steamy, inviting water. She knew it would feel heavenly upon her aching muscles. But part of her was more reluctant to step in than a cat at the edge of a puddle.

  “Well, ‘tisn’t for the castle hounds,” he assured her, moving toward the bed where several squares of linen were stacked. “Though the dogs could use a good scrubbing. I’ll have a couple of the lads take them to the river tomorrow, if you like.”

  Deirdre didn’t know what to say. The way Pagan bounced back and forth today between the roles of attentive husband and capable steward of the castle dizzied her. “Fine.”

  He unfolded the linens, then swept his fingers across the surface of the water, testing the temperature. “Did you like the roundelay?”

  “What?” How could he make casual conversation when her chamber was arranged like a bloody shrine to Venus?

  “Boniface’s roundelay.”

  “Oh. Aye.” Indeed, she couldn’t remember much of the song. It had gone on so long, her mind had wandered to other things.

  He reached for a vial of something and poured a few drops into the water, then swirled it around. “I hope you like lavender.” Returning the bottle to the table, he said without lifting his eyes, “Do you need help undressing?”

  She hesitated so long that he finally looked up at her. She gulped. “Nay. I can manage.”

  Drawing a fortifying breath, she set about the task as unceremoniously as possible. After all, she’d never been coy about nakedness. But somehow, stripping in front of Pagan made her feel utterly vulnerable.

  Pagan turned to add a log to the fire, prodding at the coals and humming under his breath as sparks showered the hearth. Perhaps if she hurried, Deirdre could slip surreptitiously into the tub before he was finished toying with the flames.

  So eager was she to get the ordeal over with that she slipped as she stepped into the tub and fell in with an enormous splash that startled Pagan and slopped water over the edge, extinguishing several candles.

  He chuckled, tossing a few of the linens onto the floor to soak up the mess. “Are you all right?”

  She tried not to blush, but was unsuccessful.

  “How’s the water? Too hot? Too cold?”

  “Fine.” Indeed, it was perfect. Accustomed to bathing in a cold pond or a bath that was tepid at best, she found the warm water a welcome pleasure. She had to confess, it would be easy to get used to Norman indulgences. Already she felt her sore muscles relaxing as they absorbed the heat, felt her inhibitions easing and her cares drifting away as the fragrant waves lapped gently at her flesh.

  “Give me your hand,” he murmured.

  She glanced at him warily, but he lifted his brows, all innocence.

  Reluctantly, she gave him her hand. To her surprise, he only placed a chunk of Saracen soap into her palm. It was perplexing. She didn’t know quite what to make of his lack of aggression.

  When he turned away again, she began to soap herself with deliberate languor, enjoying the silkiness against her skin, working some of the cardamom-scented bar into her hair as well. He returned with a pitcher of clean water, and she tilted her head for the rinse.

  She would normally bathe in haste and get out, knowing her sisters and a servant or two might make further use of the bath. But tonight it was all hers, and the water was still warm and pleasant. It was a shame to waste it. She closed her eyes and settled back against the rim of the tub, relishing the sensual heaven of lavender and candlelight.

  Once, she stole a glance beneath her lashes to see what Pagan was up to, and what she glimpsed left her breathless. He sat by the fire, his hands steepled before his chin, idly rubbing a finger across his lips as he stared at her. There was raw desire in his gaze, almost painful desire, and yet it was carefully leashed. His restraint moved her, but she also saw how fragile his hold was. Precious little stood between them now. Only her will and his honor.

  She lowered her eyelids again, trying to forget the forbearance in his face and the debt of consummation she owed him. Soon the soft crackle of the fire and the warmth of the water began to ease her anxieties, lulling her into a dreamy languor. For a while, she was wafted on a fragrant sea of repose, edging nearer and nearer to slumber’s shore.

  It was Pagan’s amused whisper that ultimately roused her. “Faith, your fingers are beginning to shrivel, my lady. Soon they’ll look like rotten apples.”

  She opened one eye. Her fingers weren’t wrinkled in the least. The varlet only teased her. She scolded him with a halfhearted glare. To her relief, his knavish smile had returned, as if the expression of torment from before had belonged to another man.

  He came toward her with a large linen square. She arose from the bath, wincing as her thigh muscles pulled, and before she could begin to chill, he wrapped the linen about her. With but one thin layer of fabric between them, she could feel the warm pressure of his fingertips as they brushed across her back, blotting the moisture from her body. He stood close to perform the task, so close she could smell the spicy scent of his own freshly washed skin, so close she shivered as his breath blew across the droplets of water upon her shoulder, so close that she wickedly wis
hed he would lower his mouth the last few inches to lap them up. But even as an errant rush of desire dizzied her, he retreated with an evasive smile, leaving her to dry herself off, and then turning to add a couple of logs to the fire.

  His back to her, he said, “Your legs yet pain you."

  “‘Tis nothing,” she lied. Her muscles strained as she lowered herself, bundled in linen, onto the edge of the pallet.

  “‘Twill be worse tomorrow if you let the muscles stiffen.” He finished at the hearth, dusted off his hands, and faced her, his gaze deceptively virtuous. “Shall I rub them for you?”

  Despite the tempting proposition, she narrowed suspicious eyes. He was definitely trying to seduce her now. Rub her legs indeed. She started to refuse his offer.

  “Or if you’d prefer,” he added with a shrug, “I could call for my squire. He’s deft at rubbing down the horses. I’m sure he would—”

  “I am not a horse.”

  The twinkle in his eyes gave him away. He jested with her.

  What was wrong with these Normans anyway? The Scots simply gritted their teeth and endured pain. They didn’t coddle their bodies with lavender-scented baths and sensual massages. Such things were a luxury that the busy steward of a castle could ill afford. Aye, they were pleasant enough...and soothing...even rather divine, but...

  “I’d hate to see you lose a day of practice.” He clucked his tongue.

  It was a tantalizing prospect. She well remembered how skilled his fingers were, how soothing his touch. Still, leaving herself literally in his hands, particularly when she was feeling so pliant...and warm...and receptive...

  “Fine,” she blurted before too much thought could convince her to decline.

  He nodded, picking up the vial of lavender oil. He poured a small pool into his palm and knelt by her bedside. Peeling the linen carefully back from her left leg, he spilled the oil onto her knee, then began to gently knead upwards along her thigh.